


Picture Day Drabbles

by GeekishChic



Series: Personal Fanfic Friday Challenge [6]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Changing It Up A Bit, Post-Reichenbach, Punching, Star Treklock, Will add more tags as I go, androidlock, superlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-22
Updated: 2014-11-22
Packaged: 2018-02-26 13:16:12
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,926
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2653319
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GeekishChic/pseuds/GeekishChic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A picture a chapter.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Hell Of A Knight

**Author's Note:**

> Changing it up a bit due to life ever changing and I'm nothing if not adaptable. This time I had people post a pic for me to write a little something to. I'll try and get as many done as possible before the deadline.
> 
> All chapters are stand alone.

                                                           

The abandoned lab was the perfect place. Molly had always been very useful and indulgent of Sherlock as much as John, but she went above and beyond with the acquisition of the abandoned lab in the basement of St. Bart's. Sherlock of course knew that he was up to something but couldn't glean what. John said it was a birthday present, which wasn't a lie. Sherlock's birthday was the perfect time to start his rebirth into the human world. Then maybe things would get back to the way they were supposed to be instead of this... bastardization of The Work.

 

 

 

 

He gathered the materials he'd need a little at a time, Molly acquiring the majority of them, John only able to help with the large pieces when he was sent over there on an errand. When preparation was complete, he devised a bit of a mystery for Sherlock to solve. Knowing he'd never stump the new and improved Consulting Detective(now with 100% more Hellfire... literally), he made it rather simple on purpose. Well, simple for Sherlock anyway. 

 

Sherlock attempted to behave uninterested, failing fantastically, until the moment John told him to deduce where he'd been and that's where his present would be. John wore an old sweatshirt and jeans, stained with years of manual labor he'd do around various places, most recently, completing Sherlock's birthday present. John purposely pushed up the sleeves of his top and stood at parade rest, as Sherlock circled him slowly.

 

"Plaster, paint, metal shavings, disinfectant..." Sherlock listed, mercurial eyes darting to his inner arms. "You've been giving blood more often than usual," he said of the tiny puncture wounds in various stages of healing.

 

"There's a crisis," John said carefully. He made sure to only tell the truth. It not only gave Sherlock nothing to latch on to, it strengthened his own resolve, making everything he had to do seem more plausible.

 

"Ginger cat hairs and antiseptic soap. You've been with Molly. Therefore you must have been at Bart's, her staying on after work to help you with remodeling of some kind. In the basement." Those fantastic eyes lit up in a way that was purely Sherlock and it broke John's heart as he was reminded of why he was attempting to do this. "John! My own lab! A proper lab!" John couldn't help a sad little smile as the tall lithe man bounced around like a child, grabbing his coat and shoving John's at him. John took a deep breath.

 

"We should get there just at midnight," John said, replacing his usual black Haversack with the old beat-up one he wore over his dirty clothing. Twelve a.m. on his birthday. How fitting. 

 

"Come  _on_ , John!" Sherlock called from inside the cab he'd already hailed.  

 

John's heart pounded as they approached one of the separate basement entrances, the access card only working on it and not the door to the stairs that lead up into the hospital proper. He called it nerves, which it emphatically was. They got to the closed door of the lab and John pulled the purple bandana from his pocket and folded it neatly.

 

"I already know what it is, John. There's no need for this juvenile-"

 

"You're one to talk about juvenile," John cut him off. "Just... indulge me." For a heart-stopping moment John thought the jig was up, that Sherlock could read everything he was planning in his eyes as they locked on his. Instead, Sherlock gave a  cheeky smirk and turned his back to John, the universal sign of trust. John felt terrible.

 

"Do I need to squat or can you reach?"

 

"Shut up."  John got the bandana firmly in place and extracted Sherlock's word that he couldn't see a thing. "How many fingers am I holding up?"

 

"Three," Sherlock answered seamlessly.

 

"I thought you said you couldn't see."

 

"I can't see. I observe. It's the most common number of fingers held up when one is asked that question. Throttling me won't help, as you well know." John dropped his hands from the position that mimicked choking his best friend and asked how many fingers he held up now. "Really, John. The rude gesture doesn't become you."

 

"You would think you'd be used to that by now." Sherlock just cocked an eyebrow as John took one last look to see if light was getting past the blindfold. It didn't look like it, so he lead Sherlock carefully into the room. The repurposed restraining chair looked like one you would find at any dentist's in the seventies, except John had painstakingly replaced the worn leather restraints with metal, etched with Enochian symbols. He'd rigged it so that all it would take was the push of a remote button he had on his key chain and they'd snap shut. The whole thing was on locking wheels for easy transport and John opened the door, guiding Sherlock into it, positioning him just so.  "Comfy?" He hated that he stammered just a little. Sherlock's head cocked sightlessly even though he could feel eyes that weren't even open on him.

 

"John?" John took a deep breath, reached into his pocket, and pressed the button. The sound they made clamping into place was unreasonably loud in John's head as he unlocked the wheel breaks and pushed the contraption inside the devil's trap painted on the floor and ceiling in the center of the room.

 

"I'm so sorry, Sherlock," he whispered, the screams as he injected what his best friend had become with the first vial of his own completely human, sanctified blood brought tears to his eyes he refused to let spill. He had a long day of soul-curing ahead of him. He would do it, or die trying. 


	2. Future Fix

                                                        

 

 

Dr. Watson watched his best friend fall to his death from that hospital roof every time he shut his eyes, so he endeavored to keep them open for as long as possible. He would attend refresher conventions in that lovely luxury hotel on Mars, and Starfleet would foot the bill when they evaluated that he was finally beginning to get back to his old self, in order to execute what he couldn't believe he didn't think of first. He specialized in combat injuries, cybernetic limb and organ replacements using biological matter from the recipients own DNA. He could manipulate things on a genetic level, sculpt his exact likeness. It would take him several years, as he'd never done a whole body from scratch, but he'd come near enough plenty of times. War was a horrific thing but he was almost thankful for the necessary skills he acquired as a result of it.

 

He finally smiled genuinely, not in the strained, muted way he did to try and fool the people of the outside world. He lay in bed staring at the object suspended above it. In a mini transparent cryogenic cube was a human heart. The heart of Sherlock Holmes. Molly had given him no end of funny looks when he requested it, but finally complied when he explained that it was to prove to people that he had one. She'd gotten right soppy then and tearfully handed it over along with his famous coat and a few of his other personal affects.  

 

It took him two years of evaluations and working between the surgery and the piecemeal lab at Baker Street to get the head and torso completed. The majority of the time was spent on the positronic brain, getting all the knowledge just so and, again, doing an entire one instead of just restoring a damaged bit. The hair was a bit blacker than the dark chocolate mop Sherlock favoured, probably to spite his brother's rapidly receding hairline. The skin was a bit too pale, even for Sherlock, but would probably look healthier once he got some "blood" going through it and he could dye the hair. He made sure to keep his expectations reasonably low as nothing was going to be a hundred percent exact. He was getting a bit too excited about hearing that voice, that often gravelly rumble and posh tone, again. It would be easier to work on the vocal chords at this point rather than when everything was finished so he could at least test them. 

 

Hearing him say "Hello, John" once more would be worth everything. So he reached down into the turned up collar of the coat, pushing aside the authentic blue scarf, and opened the little door concealed there, then reached in and found the main switch. The eyes came to life, the head turned and regarded him coolly.

 

"Hello, Sherlock," he tried.

 

"Hello, John." No. No that wasn't right at all. It was similar but way too off to be from the same person he'd been closest to. He even took care to replicate what years of smoking would have done to change them and it was still... wrong. He'd found he was even able to sleep a little during this time but the insomnia came back full throttle at this conundrum. He took a leave of absence so he could spend every moment trying to figure out what was wrong.

 

After a week straight, John's body gave out a bit and he dozed in the chair from which he would sit and observe his creation when he wasn't fiddling with it. In his state of consciousness, he didn't see Sherlock fall, hadn't since he thought of the project. He did, however, hear a voice of the perfect timbre ask him if he was planning on keeping that dreadful moustache. He snapped to his feet almost before fully waking and stared hard at the android. it was still hunched over, staring fixedly at the screen of a piece of diagnostic computer equipment to which it was attached. A fleeting thought of how much he obsessed getting that sodding dip in the top lip correct made him feel insane for the first time since this all began.

 

"It makes you look like an old man," stated  _The_  voice. Yep. He was definitely done for in the sanity department, because the voice came from the door to his sitting room, a perfectly sound,  _correct_  looking Sherlock Holmes gracing its threshold. He approached the hallucination(it had to be)cautiously, so it wouldn't dissipate and stopped inches from it. It radiated heat and movement. "You... made a replica of me..." It said in disbelief.

 

"I had to do something," John almost whispered, reaching up to touch but stopping just shy of the noble nose, a nose which  _breathed_  on his hand. 

 

"I heard," the vision said, sighing in the way that Sherlock sighs instead of shaking his head pityingly. "But this is a bit far, don't you think? That wasn't even my heart." 

 

"I  _knew_  it!"John cried triumphantly. "I'll need to have a few words with Molly Hooper, I can tell you that!"

 

"No. It's not her fault. It's not my heart because I'm not actually dead. That was the heart of my lookalike used to scare those kidnapped children." They had a stare off, just like old times. Then John shook his head without taking his eyes off of him.

 

"Nope. No, that's impossible. I should just take the damn sleeping pills is what I should do. Perhaps the lot of them and-"

 

"John!" It wasn't his name in that voice once again, it was was the very real, very  _alive_  hand grasping his arm in a vice-like grip. 

 

And when John punched the face, it bled real blood.

 

 


End file.
